


Arthur A Name On The Wind

by NY_shi



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot, not really in line with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NY_shi/pseuds/NY_shi
Summary: A sad fruk fic to end off 2020.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), FrUK - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Arthur A Name On The Wind

**Author's Note:**

> the idea popped into my mind right when I was about to fall asleep ;-; rip me... just let me sleep—!

_1\. Angel_

Francis gathered up his long tunic, and made his way into the sunset, golden hair alight and blowing all around his face like a halo.

A shadowy spirit follows in his wake, once bright of eye and a weight on the grass.

  
  
  
  
_2\. Regret_

_"Arthur."_

The boy stops walking. He straightens his back. "Francis," he replies evenly. 

The name sounds hollow, like an empty well. It had been a long time. But he was back. Clearly, they are able to see and hear each other.

The old him would have smiled, or rather, the younger him, the one that charmed Francis, then left him, then left everyone else. Francis claims that he never broke his heart—how? He looks worse than ever. The grief does not look good on him, on this beautiful person he loved. He has been broken beyond repair, and for the rest of his life he will live with the hurt that comes with irrevocable loss, and he will never recover.

If Arthur knew this day would come he would never have grabbed so carelessly at Francis' hand. Thought twice before indulging his whims. The voice is his but he has no emotion to give it. He can only speak coldly, like he should have from the very start. The second their eyes locked and refused to look away.

Still—

It's okay, Francis thinks. It's okay just like this.

There's all this grass, the setting sun, and his beloved.

  
  
  
  
_3\. Temporary_

The sun sets. Arthur is gone.

Francis cries in the dark for a long time. The nights were long, and so hard to bear. He doesn't know where Arthur is, doesn't know if he will ever come back. And that makes Francis scared every time, a kind of scared that choked his throbbing heart and he knew nothing else but this fierce pain, clawing its way out through his chest.

...

He keeps the old memories of them. Back then they made a lot of promises, very easily, like blinking.

"Do you promise?"

"Yeah."

Once upon a time, they had held each others' hands tightly, _warm_ hands, with warm blood flowing under their skin. Their laughter sent birds flying from the trees. Their secrets were safe with each other. But there is no promise that lasts forever. Whatever happiness is always short-lived, giving the illusion of hours and days and weeks spanning into years—but is over before it has even started.

And in the shadows of shadows, tears fall endlessly from his eyes. 

Even when he stares blankly into space, unseeing, his mind far away, clear water gathers on his lower lid, pressing downward with the tug of gravity, and the soundless weight of suffering until it all but gives way, time and time again.

Because he misses Arthur endlessly.

  
  
  
  
  
_4\. Hope_

Nobody hears him. Maybe it was for the best. It was too pitiful a sight, too sorrowful a sob to fall on any innocent passerby's ears.

But there was a small chance, Francis knew somewhere in his tortured heart, that Arthur heard him. Then he would have to be somewhere...! 

Somewhere that he can go.

Yes, it is very possible. Imagine them, all grown-up, married even, Arthur's finger with the gold band, Arthur's smiling face—that is all he needs.

If only Francis could see him again...

  
  
  
  
_5\. Ulysses_

God forbid that he never see Arthur again. He will, he decides. He has to.

Francis doesn't sleep. He waits by the tree for Arthur. When the sun rises, touches the grass on the top of this hill, Arthur will walk towards him.

His heart skips a beat as reality sinks in. No, no he wouldn't. He is so light now, lighter than he was before, he comes and goes as he pleases. 

Like white sand of a beach, like the salty ocean breeze, not bound to any name Francis may call him. Yet he keeps it up, tireless in effort, until the shouts of "Arthur! Arthur!" are no more audible than a leaf falling from a branch. Than sand carried away by the sea.

_Arthur!_

In Francis' mind he is still very loud. His ears ring and throb.

_Come back._

  
  
  
  
  
_6\. Respite_

The morning sky is grey, overcast. Dark, heavy clouds loom overhead like an ominous curse placed upon him.

There is no sunlight to be found in this world.

No light from which Arthur so often emerges from, catching Francis unawares. 

Precipitation falls upon him, upon the grass and the trees. His hair sticks to his face and to the back of his neck. It drowns out any other lesser sound and drenches him in seconds. 

He stands somewhere in the middle of it, unmoving as if only him had been frozen in time, isolated from the rest of the world, cold and lonely.

The scenery blurs into hazy monochrome, none of which mattered. 

Perhaps a bit of time goes by, unaccounted for, bothering no one.

"Francis."

He turns at the sound. He knows it's Arthur's voice. The Arthur he has been waiting for.

It's Arthur's shimmering hand on his wrist, the touch feather-light so Francis doesn't dare move a muscle. Doesn't dare breathe.

It's Arthur's other hand reaching up to shield his head from the rain. It catches a few droplets, but nothing more. Arthur is not wet in the least, he is silvery in the rain, he is here for Francis.

He is looking at him properly, talking to him in the way that he remembers. 

"Don't stay in the rain."

Francis takes a deep breath. He moves his hand to hold Arthur's, very gently, and the other to touch his cheek, or the outline of it. He can feel Arthur's dry skin right under his fingertips. The pain eases slightly to let in sweet relief and a burst of warmth.

" _Arthur_." He whispers.

The other boy steps backwards. He traces a thin line across Francis' cold face, along his tender jaw and Francis feels a bit warmer where he touched. There is fondness in his eyes, in his caresses, bleeding from his fingertips, fondness for Francis, if not enough to be called affection. If not enough time.

All the rain makes it hard to see, and the silvery shape of Arthur is quickly blending into the background like sugar into black coffee.

His voice stays a bit longer, unmarred by the millions of droplets of water crashing into the earth.

"You waited so long...so I came."

Francis' eyes are burning again. He can almost hear a sad smile, as if Arthur is capable of that.

"Rejoice, Francis."

  
  
  
  



End file.
